


Dare I say, Newt is handsy

by kingsoup



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: M/M, i woke up this morning possessed with a need to write this out of no where
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 14:18:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14403906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingsoup/pseuds/kingsoup
Summary: Body language is weird





	Dare I say, Newt is handsy

Hermann was fascinated with the way Newton's hands never stopped moving. They danced in the air to symphonies unheard of while he was excited and crashed liked waves against cliffs when he was too passionate to hold back. When he was nervous they'd move erratically, tentatively but forceful none the less, in repeated gestures and ticks. Often, they reached out to Hermann - he didn't know how to feel about that. 

 

In meetings, Newton would twist his fingers, pop his knuckles, and tug at anything around them. His leather bracelets were bound to this abuse and were frayed, cracked, and tired of it. He'd fiddle with pencils or pens and his coffee lid, no matter how many times Stacker had yelled, _For God's sake Dr. Geiszler if you spill that even one more time not even Hermann's cane will keep you safe from my wrath._

 

To his credit, Newt at least hesitated before going for the lid again (and Hermann sighed so heavily his soul in the next life would feel it, for why did he have to be so intrinsically tied to this disaster of a man that even threats smashed into the biologist somehow involved him?) 

 

When Newt's hands gravitated towards the mathematician, they came holding excuses. Hermann, let me fix your jacket, your hair, let me tie your shoe laces and yes, no one is looking so you can swallow that pride for the time it takes for the rabbit to go over the hill and through the loop. Hermann, here is your cane - just don't pay attention to the way my fingers linger at yours. Hermann, your glasses are slipping off your face, but don't let your face heat up when I brush your cheekbone fixing them for you. 

 

Those excuses were loud and telling, but heaven have small mercies, sometimes they were so quiet both of them could pretend not to notice.

 

The need to hold on to something safe, immovable, too stubborn for the world to change, was understandable in a world of chaos, so Hermann let the other clutch his arm when he was tense at the overwhelming destruction they'd face. Panic would sometimes grip Newt so tightly the world would simply slip away, so Hermann would let Newt's hands find his way to his back and let him bury his face in his chest until all he could breathe in was stability and chalk dust. At meetings, all that was keeping Newt’s hands from flying free and punching some poor bastard in the face was a carefully placed hand over his own, a silent reminder that he was not alone in this fight. 

 

(These were necessary so they never spoke about times like these and they remained quiet.)

 

 

 

But in the end, all body language is telling, no matter how small, so when Newt’s hands - god his _hands_ \- wrapped around Hermann’s neck and dared Hermann to believe in him, Hermann knew not to take this too personally. He was a man of math, after all, and if he compiled the data of all the times Newt had reached out to him in any form it had always been out of love. But had he reached back? 

 

Hermann moves his own hands to hold onto Newt’s and he’s scared but fear is only background noise to at this point in his life, so he rubs Newt’s hands gently, slowly, desperately, and Newt lets go. He never wanted him to let go, not like this, anyways. 


End file.
